


Come Into My Castle

by thelittlestbird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Community: got_exchange, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2649206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelittlestbird/pseuds/thelittlestbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Brynden Tully at the time he refused to marry the Redwyne girl. I don’t care where you go with it</p>
<p>Summary: Brynden Tully couldn’t talk to his brother about anything anymore. Why should marriage be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Into My Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madaboutasoiaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madaboutasoiaf/gifts).



_I: Black Clothes_

You could still see black in the Great Hall of Riverrun if you looked hard enough. Armbands on devoted servants, scraps of drapery that hadn’t been cleared away.

And when Lord Elwyn’s elder son was present, there was no doubt at all that House Tully was still in mourning for the loss of their lord.

The new lord – young Hoster, as the older bannermen still called him, only two-and-twenty – was all in black, his broad shoulders straining at the edges of the fabric. He had vowed to mourn his father for the fullest and most proper time possible. How better to prove himself worthy of being the lord of Riverrun?

But today, one obligation was conspiring against another: the new lord of Riverrun found himself playing host to King Jaehaerys’s own brother Prince Aemyn, along with half the Kingsguard, half the court and their kin. Targaryens, Whents, Arryns, and Hightowers were all owed hospitality and honor, and the Tullys and their bannermen would give it. So tonight there was a great feast, with all of the finest food that the Riverlands could offer to their royal and noble guests.

Seventeen-year-old Brynden was bored stiff.

He’d mourned his father truly. Lord Elwyn had been a loving father, one of the Tullys who followed the House words in the order given: family above all. Duty and honor were not far behind, of course, but family still mattered most. 

Still, Brynden wished that he could put off black. He’d done his mourning, and now the sight of black only reminded him again of what he’d lost when he longed to move on. He felt restless in his mourning clothes, as if he had been sitting in a small room for weeks and desperately wanted to go outside.

But if Hoster was still wearing black, there was no way that Brynden could not wear it. He wouldn’t let himself be outdone by his older brother. And he could hear the tongues wagging already, knew what they’d say if he did. The little lord, far too light-hearted for his own good. Never takes anything seriously, does young Brynden. Always laughing, but laughs too much.

He wished that he had something to laugh about. Hang the gossips and whisperers.

But instead, Brynden sat at his lord brother’s side, where an heir should properly be, wearing black as he properly should, while the noble guests ate and Hoster held forth. “Riverrun is yours, Highness,” Hoster told Prince Aemyn for what Brynden swore was the thousandth time. _I should really start counting_ , Brynden thought. 

“I am grateful for your hospitality, Lord Tully,” the prince replied.

“It is the least we can do,” Hoster said courteously. “Riverrun is yours.”

_That’s five times he’s said it. If he gets seven points_ , Brynden thought, _does he win, like in rats-and-cats? Or does he have to go to nine, like come-into-my-castle?_

“As you say,” said Prince Aemyn. Was it too much to hope that he was keeping count too? Probably.

Brynden knew that he shouldn’t laugh. He knew how much it mattered to Hoster to be seen as the lord of Riverrun – and what’s more, he knew how hard it was for Hoster to sit where their father had sat a scant three months before. But somehow, everything that his brother said struck Brynden as either pompous or boring. Or both.

“What sort of entertainment would please you, Highness, while you stay here?” Hoster continued. “We have minstrels, mummers…”

Prince Aemyn glanced around the room. “With so many knights present, perhaps there could be a tourney.”

Brynden sat up straight, suddenly eager. “A tourney?” It was the most interesting thing he’d heard since the steward had said there would be apple tarts for dessert.

Hoster glared at his brother – too much enthusiasm was apparently not dignified enough for the new lord. But Prince Aemyn’s pale features curved into a thin smile as he regarded them both. “If all of our hosts are willing,” said the prince.

“We are, Highness,” Hoster said smoothly, even as he shot another sidelong look over at Brynden. How would they put on a tourney at such short notice? Brynden could almost see the numbers spinning in his brother’s head, calculating the coin and time and people they would need to do it. But the prince had requested a tournament, and they could not say no. “Your visit honors us, and we would be happy to give a tournament in thanks. In the meantime, please be at home.” He stood, raising his cup to Aemyn. “You are a friend of our House and we give you our leave.”

It was the last line of the chant in the come-into-my-castle game.

As soon as Hoster heard the words come out of his mouth, his face froze. Had he really just recited a children’s rhyme in front of his whole court? In front of a prince? If Aemyn recognized the words, he showed no sign of it. Either royal children didn’t play come-into-my-castle, or the prince was too well-practiced in courtesy to let his face betray anything.

_Don’t laugh,_ Brynden told himself, even as he felt a snicker rising up in the back of his throat, and heard a faint murmur of laughter somewhere at the other end of the table. _Don’t laugh. Don’t look at Hoster_. He pressed his mouth tight. _Look somewhere else. Look anywhere else. Find another person to look at. Someone boring._ Brynden looked desperately around, trying to find the most boring person in the room. 

Ser Barristan Selmy? He could always be counted on to be boring! But, no – he had a look of such stolid upright dignity that it made Brynden want to laugh even more. Lady Rowena Arryn? She was eating, her cheek puffed out with a huge bite of food. It was hilarious. The knights at the lower table?

Brynden stopped short. One of them was looking back at him, with exactly the same expression on his face: mouth shut tight against laughter, brown eyes dancing with glee. The same expression, the same feeling, the same moment.

Brynden’s heart turned over with a thump.

He made himself break away from the knight’s bright gaze and quickly read the sigil on his tabard instead. A red castle with two towers on a field of white. Redfort, one of the chief bannermen of the Arryns. From the knight’s place at the table, he must be the second son, Jon. Named after his father’s lord, of course – the Riverlands were already starting to fill up with baby Hosters as families strove to prove their loyalty to the new lord of Riverrun.

Jon Redfort winked at Brynden and grinned. Brynden grinned back, and looked down.

But Brynden wasn’t the only person who had noticed his brother’s turn of phrase. There were ripples of laughter being suppressed all over the hall, and Hoster’s face was growing as red as Brynden’s hair.

* * * 

When dinner was over, the entertainment started: a minstrel singing songs that Hoster probably thought were dignified and suited to the princely visit, but that Brynden found even more hideously dull than the endless royal greetings. As soon as the first song ended and applause rose up, Brynden fled.

“Lord Brynden,” came a light dancing voice from behind him.

He turned around to see those laughing brown eyes, and Jon Redfort’s grin. His heart gave another hard thump, and he smiled back. “Just Ser,” Brynden replies. “Or, just Brynden.”

“Ser Jon Redfort,” he introduced himself in return. “Or just Ser. Or just Jon.” Brynden grinned more at hearing his own words echoed back. He knew that Jon wasn’t mocking him; he was just playing with words. Brynden could appreciate that. “You’ll be fighting in the tournament, I take it?” Jon asked.

Brynden’s smile grew a little more. “I hope so.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing that, then. I’ve heard you’re good.” Jon grinned again, and Brynden was pretty sure that they weren’t just talking about tourneys anymore. 

Not that he’d had that many of this kind of conversation, with either boys or girls. He hadn’t practiced the art of saying one thing and meaning another, or dropping a hidden comment for someone else to find.

But, a year ago, when he and his fellow squires were learning mounted charges on the practice field, Brynden had fallen into such close cooperation with one of the other young men that it felt as if the two of them were a single person on a single horse. Their horses’ hooves pounded the ground at the same time, their hands slid down the reins at the same speed in the same moment. They even breathed together. And when practice ended, they hadn’t needed to talk – they just walked off the field together, hearts pounding, and both knew what they wanted to happen next.

It was much easier when he didn’t need to say anything. Like now.

Brynden looked into Jon’s sparking brown eyes, and asked a silent question. 

Jon met his gaze, and kept talking. “Plenty of girls around to give favors to, I suppose, but I always found it easier to focus on the fight when I didn’t have to worry about that. Right?”

That was the answer Brynden had hoped for. His smile grew a little wider, and he answered, “Right.” 

He turned to go back into the hall, heart pounding as giddily as if he were riding at full gallop.

After that, running into his brother felt like the dull thump of falling out of the saddle onto the ground.

Hoster’s hand grabbed his shoulder so hard that Brynden nearly staggered. He shoved back against Hoster’s hand, and was satisfied when he saw Hoster stumble backwards in return. 

“What were you playing at?” Hoster growled. Not too loud – the new lord wouldn’t risk having anyone hear him. Brynden froze. Had his brother seen him with Jon? He was actually relieved when Hoster continued with “Trapping me in the prince’s offer? Laughing at me in front of the whole court? You made me look like a fool!”

_You did a good job of that yourself with your pompous airs_ , Brynden was tempted to say. He gulped back the retort, and instead said, “I was trying to please the prince.”

“You were going over my head to get what you wanted. You were laughing at me!”

Brynden could see the uncertainty in his brother’s eyes. He knew that it was fear, not anger, that made Hoster’s voice shake and his face twist, and for a moment, Brynden felt terribly sad. Something of that must have shown in Brynden’s expression, because Hoster drew himself up even taller. “I am the lord!” he shouted, shouldering his broad frame closer to crowd Brynden against the wall. “I am the lord of Riverrun! And if my own brother doesn’t act like I am, how do you think everyone else will look at me?”

Hoster was twenty-two, and afraid, and Brynden wanted to help, but didn’t know how. 

“You did well, brother,” Brynden said quietly. “You did.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell his brother that he was proud of him, that he’d follow him as his lord. That he loved him. But if he did, he knew that Hoster would hear just the opposite: that Brynden had doubted him, was looking down on him, thought he was weak. So he lifted his voice up towards lightness again and said, “It’s going to be a fine tourney.”

But it only made things worse. “Don’t mock me!” Hoster roared, and stormed away.

Brynden wished he knew something to say that would help his brother. But he didn’t.

* * *

Three days later, there was indeed a fine tourney at Riverrun. Jon Redfort and Brynden Tully fought together in the melee. 

Jon was faster than Brynden, darting in and out of the fight as if he were the fish that leaped over the arc of Brynden’s shield; while Brynden stood fast like the castle on Jon’s and used his strength to drive their opponents back. In the end, they were the last ones standing: the two of them alone in the middle of the ring that had somehow been cobbled together in time for the event, fighting off everyone else.

Lord Arryn slapped Hoster on the shoulder, congratulating him on the way their bannerman and brother had worked together. Even Prince Aemyn smiled.

Afterwards – after the feasting and toasting and singing that followed - Brynden and Jon stayed together, going off to a hidden corner of Riverrun that only Brynden knew about. They went over every moment of the melee again, laughing with excitement as they told each other the story that they’d just lived through. And then they kissed, and spoke no more through their long happy night together.

When Lord Arryn and his people left Riverrun, Brynden and Jon couldn’t find the words to say goodbye. They promised to write, but when Brynden sat down with his quill later that night, he couldn’t figure out what to say. 

But two months later there was another tourney, and they fought side by side once more, and everything was just as perfect as it had been. They didn’t need to talk.

“Promise me this will never change?” Jon said that night, breathless from laughing. 

“You know that nobody can promise that,” Brynden replied.

Jon poked him. “You know what I mean!”

Brynden grinned in spite of himself. “I promise that I’ll always want things to be like this.”

Jon laughed. “I’ll take that.”

 

_II: Blackfyre_

A year later, when the Blackfyre Pretenders came back to Westeros and made knights turn from tourneys to war, the Arryns and Tullys rode out together once more. Banners flying, armor clanking, hoofbeats pounding, they marched south.

The War of the Ninepenny Kings, people were calling it. It was a jest that Brynden could appreciate: pretending that the invaders were only worth nine pennies between them, that they were nothing but a group of sellswords who would work for pennies. But one of those sellswords was Maelys the Monstrous, who had Targaryen blood in his veins, a gruesome second head on his shoulders, and a claim to the throne that King Jaehaerys took seriously enough to send five thousand men.

When the armies met, it would be Brynden’s first time in battle. Hoster’s too, although he tried to pretend that it wasn’t, as he rode alongside the other great lords. 

Brynden was in the second rank of knights, close enough to see all of the lords but not to talk to them. Not close enough to talk to Jon, either, although he could see him. There were no dancing sparks in Jon’s brown eyes beneath his helm, just grim determination over a deep uncertainty. When Jon saw Brynden looking his way, some of the uneasiness retreated, and Brynden could smile again too. 

The only moment they could steal for themselves when they were setting up camp that evening, and by this point, they barely needed to talk. They just walked, feeling each other’s presence by their side and silently hoping that this wouldn’t be the last night that they would spend together.

Brynden didn’t see his brother at all that night. Hoster was shut up with the other great lords, plotting strategies and poring over maps, moving around the little pieces that represented Brynden and Jon and the other knights. But the next morning, to Brynden’s surprise, Hoster came to find him.

“I just wanted to say,” Hoster began, and then stopped, because he wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted to say. 

Brynden didn’t know what he wanted to say either, but he knew that he wanted to say something to his brother, because he didn’t know when they’d get a chance to talk again. Whether they’d get a chance to talk again. At the end of this journey, would Hoster be dead and Brynden lord of Riverrun in his place? Or would they both be gone and leave Riverrun to some cousin? What could they possibly say, when the day might end like that?

Except, perhaps, _I love you,_ and that was something that both found it very hard to say.

Before they could find any words at all there was a trumpet blast from the other side of the field. Both brothers’ heads popped up, whipping around in unison towards the sound. “Time to go,” Brynden said quietly.

Hoster hesitated for a moment more, his mouth still open with the words he hadn’t spoken, but no words came. He just clapped his brother on the shoulder and turned away. 

Brynden reached out to grab Hoster’s arm, hanging onto his brother for just a moment more. Hoster didn’t resist. 

Then Brynden let go, and swung up onto his horse to ride into battle.

***  
There were knights who said that battles were just like the melee in a tourney. After five minutes of fighting, Brynden knew that he would never be one of them.

Some things were the same. You had to keep track of your allies – you had to hold their locations in your mind all at the same time, and you had to know where to place yourself so that you would give them the most help. You had to watch their backs and your own. You had to keep going even when your armor filled with sweat and your sword arm felt like it was going to drop off with exhaustion.

But that was easy, compared to being in battle. 

All around Brynden, there was noise and stench and terror, the shouts of falling men and the cheers of rising ones, the blare of horns, battle cries in voices he’d known all his life and in languages he’d never heard. He fought harder than he ever had, thrashing his sword up and down with all the force that he could bear. 

If the melee was like swimming in a stream, then battle was like falling into the Tumblestone River at the height of the spring rush.

And, may the Seven forgive him, he _loved_ it. 

Twice he charged in to chase a mercenary away from Jon; three times Jon did the same for him. They saved each other over and over, and they saved the other knights in their little band as well, more times than they could count. They failed to save more than they could count, too, and they slew even more. But they couldn’t stop long enough to think about that. If they stopped, they’d be lost forever.

There had been six of them at the start: Brynden, Jon, two from Riverrun and two from the Eyrie. But the Valemen split off to chase down one of the sellsword captains, and then Robin Ryger got a crossbow bolt in the shoulder and stumbled off towards the maesters’ tent, cursing and bleeding. And then a Tyroshi mace smashed Norbert Vance in the head, and he fell, and Brynden wasn’t sure that his friend would ever rise again. Nor was he sure that he’d ever get the sound of his friend’s skull crunching out of his ears ever again.

So it was just Brynden and Jon again, side by side as the enemy closed in.

Just when Brynden thought they’d have to fall back, Jon let out a cheer and charged ahead. A second later, Brynden saw what had made Jon so excited: the white armor of the Kingsguard, barely visible through the swirl of banners and horses and mud. It was Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold, with Gerold’s brother Ser Haryn Hightower close by them as they fought a small band of Tyroshi. Brynden spurred his horse after Jon, sword swinging with new strength and voice lifting in a shout of “Riverrrun!” as they charged towards the Kingsguard.

The Tyroshi were so startled by the sudden charge that they actually fled.

Brynden could have sworn that Barristan almost smiled.

So now there were five again, enough to hold together and to start pushing forward across the field towards one of the royal banners far ahead.

After what seemed like an age since the battle started, but which must have been only an hour or two, they were able to stop for a drink of water and a deeper breath.

As they stood, a squire ran up, ragged and covered in blood. Brynden couldn’t tell how much of the blood was the boy’s own. “My lord - ” the squire gasped.

Brynden instinctively looked behind him for Hoster – that’s who people meant when they said ‘my lord.’ But Hoster wasn’t there, and the boy fell to his knees in front of Brynden.

Brynden looked around again. The boy was kneeling to _him_? Yes, he was. He was awestruck by the two Kingsguard and impressed by the other knights, but he was kneeling to Brynden. Who was he? Someone from the Riverlands, clearly. One of the younger Goodbrook sons, maybe? Brynden wished he knew the boy’s name, but there was no time to waste on asking. He just needed to hear what the boy’s message was.

“What is it?” he asked. The squire just shook his head. “What’s the message?” Brynden asked again. He had to shout – the trumpets were starting up again, and a harsh battle chant in Tyroshi echoed across the field. The boy shook his head again. Brynden didn’t have time for this! “Are we playing hide-the-treasure?” he snapped. “Are you going to act it out?”

Jon choked back a laugh, but Ser Barristan snorted in disapproval, and Brynden could feel his glare. 

To everyone’s surprise, the boy laughed right along with Jon. It broke through the webs of fear that had been holding him tight, and let him speak at last. “I – I couldn’t act it out even if I tried, my lord,” the boy gasped. “It’s Maelys the Monstrous. He’s there. With ten men, coming up behind the ridge. And, my lord, he really has two heads!”

“Ten, you say?” Barristan asked, instantly sharp and focused. “On foot, or mounted?”  
“On foot, all of them. All ten,” the boy confirmed.

Jon grinned, and swung up onto his horse. “Then we can catch them.” 

“We can,” Barristan agreed.

“Just us?” Ser Haryn asked, staring at his brother as if hoping Gerold would stop this plan, or produce the rest of the Kingsguard out of his saddlebags.

It was Brynden who answered him. “That’s all we have,” he said, knowing the truth of the words as he said them. “We don’t have time to call for more.” He looked over at Jon, not because he was uncertain of what he was saying, but because he wanted to feel Jon’s presence as he talked about going out to face this kind of danger. “We’ll have to count on being able to take them.”

Now that his message was given, the boy was starting to shake. Brynden reached out to steady him. “Well done,” he said, his smile gentle now. “You’re safe, and you’ve done your duty. Now get yourself somewhere safe.” He wasn’t sure where that might be, but he had to say it. He had to send the boy somewhere safer than where the five of them were about to go. 

Brynden watched the Hightower brothers ride side by side, and wished he knew where Hoster was.

* * *

They charged over the ridge, the five of them together.

Jon was fastest, as always – he darted in so quickly that he had taken down the first two of Maelys’s men before anyone knew he was there. By the time they did realize that they were under attack, the two Hightowers were already there, shoulder to shoulder against the rest of the Tyroshi guards.

No – not all of the rest of the guards. There were three who were still clustered around Maelys himself. 

So that’s where Brynden went. Sword held high, he charged towards them, wheeling his horse sharply around in a tight circle to hem in the three guards and separate them from their captain.

And it worked! They turned towards Brynden, flailing at him with weapons that they hadn’t expected to use on a man on horseback – and that left Maelys open for Barristan to charge in. 

The Pretender was just as immense and just as monstrous as all of the stories said. He was nearly as tall on foot as Brynden was mounted, and his pale Targaryen coloring made him look as ghostly as if he were already dead. And worst of all, he really did have a second head beside the first, shrunken and misshapen and blank-eyed on his shoulder. Maelys the Monstrous gave a mighty roar as he saw his men cut down around him, and turned all his fury towards the slim white-clad knight who stood in front of him.

Brynden could hear the shouts of battle going on all around him, but he saw nothing except the three sellswords in front of him. His sword bit through cracks in armor and slid through joints, and one of the Tyroshi fell. His horse danced sideways out of the path of the Tyroshi maces, then reared up in fear so high that Brynden almost lost his seat. But instead of clutching tighter, he let his sword swing high as the horse came down, using the force of falling to make the blow even harder. 

It felt like he was flying.

The second Tyroshi screamed as Brynden’s sword crashed down on him, and he dropped to the ground.

Brynden couldn’t spare even a glance away from the last Tyroshi to look over towards where Barristan was fighting with Maelys, but he could still hear the crash of metal on metal, and could hear the Pretender’s shouts of fury and pain. Barristan made no noise at all, fighting with pure sharp focus. Brynden wished that he could watch – he knew that only a true genius of a knight could stand up to an enemy like Maelys, and he wanted to see how Barristan was doing it. But he still had one foe of his own to face, and the fight wasn’t over yet.

He tried to wheel his horse around again, but as he did, the horse tipped sharply, giving a pained shriek as it crumpled under him – the last Tyroshi had attacked the horse instead of the man. Brynden barely had time to leap free before the animal collapsed to the ground. He landed in front of the last Tyroshi: face to face, on the same level, sweaty and battered and spattered with his blood and others’. 

He looked the Tyroshi straight in the eye, and he grinned. 

The Tyroshi sprang forward, and Brynden’s sword flew up to meet his. The blades scraped against each other as they strained, strength against strength, each trying to push the other back far enough to get in a real strike. Brynden’s arms shook and his jaw clenched as he poured every bit of his power into holding the other man off – and little by little, he crept forward as his strength slowly overcame the Tyroshi’s. He pressed his blade forward – and forward – and forward – until it tilted so far that it bit into the Tyroshi’s neck, and the other man fell

A moment later, Maelys fell with a thunderous crash of armor, both heads lolling into the mud. The Pretender was dead, the Blackfyre line crushed at last. Westeros was safe, and they were the ones who had done it: the five of them.

For a moment, they all stood still, too stunned to do anything. And then Brynden let out a great whoop, all of his relief and joy and battle-fury and giddiness coming out in one enormous cheer. 

“Maelys is dead!” Barristan shouted, and a moment later, they heard the same cheer rising all over the Stepstones. “Maelys is dead!”

The five knights made their way back to the camp through a storm of cheers that chased away even the deepest weariness of battle. 

Back at the leaders’ tent, Brynden and Hoster rushed towards each other and clasped each other in their arms, not caring about the dirt or blood or the hard metal shell of armor that still covered them both. They were brothers and they were alive, and that was all that mattered.

In the night that followed, there was so much revelry and chaos that it was easy for Brynden and Jon to slip away to a place where nobody would see them. They felt more alive that night than they ever had before.

Only very late, after hours of joy, did Brynden finally dare to say, “I couldn’t have borne it if I’d lost you.”

“I couldn’t have borne it either,” Jon whispered back. “But we didn’t lose each other, did we?” He was smiling, but even in the starlight, Brynden could see the memory fear behind Jon’s eyes. “And you were _brilliant._ ” 

Brynden held Jon tight, and smiled back.

* * *

They all rode home on the crest of a wave of triumph. Brynden the Brave, Barristan the Bold, a dozen other alliterations that sent cheers up and down the column of knights every time they were heard.

Back at Riverrun, there was an enormous feast for both brothers’ safe return and the victory over the would-be usurper. 

And then they had to get back to their regular lives somehow. Brynden went back to training with the sword and lance, to dreaming about the next tournament, to writing to Jon.

Two months later, Hoster called Brynden into his study.

“I’ve got good news for you, little brother.” Hoster was grinning so widely that Brynden didn’t even bother to grumble at being called ‘little brother.’ What good news could it be? Brynden’s mind raced through all the happy possibilities that could be in front of him. There wasn’t a vacancy in the Kingsguard, was there? “I’ve been talking to Garren Redwyne,” Hoster declared. “He’s agreed to betroth his daughter Bethany to you.”

Brynden stared. That was the good news? That he was going to have to get _married?_

He thought of the half-written letter to Jon hidden away in his room. He thought of his own heart breaking, and Jon’s too. He thought of how unfair it would be to poor Bethany, to be married to someone who could never love her.

He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t.

“Married? No.”

“Right, then – “ It took Hoster that long to realize that Brynden hadn’t actually agreed with him. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no.” Brynden couldn’t find any other words, so he just said it straight out. “I won’t marry her.”

Hoster still didn’t understand. “Why not?”

Brynden shook his head. “I don’t love her.”

“You don’t love her?” Hoster repeated. “This isn’t about love! Marriage is never about love.” He tossed that idea aside with a snort. “You’ll marry Bethany Redwyne for the alliance. She’s highborn and good-natured and pretty. What more can you want?” 

_I want Jon Redfort,_ Brynden thought. _I want to be able to tell you about how brave he is, how funny, how steadfast._

Brynden just shook his head again, and said, “No. I won’t. I don’t love her, and I won’t stand up and swear to gods and men that I do. I won’t lie like that.” He kept his voice level, even as he saw the fury rising in his brother’s face. 

“Lying?” Hoster thundered. “It is a bloody alliance! Do you think you’re still some tourney knight playing on the field for favors and songs and some glorious idea of honor? Are you holding out for someone better, Ser Hero of the Ninepenny War?” Two months ago, Hoster had been happy to call Brynden that in earnest; now it sounded like an insult. “Do you think you’re above her?”

“No, that’s not it! I’m sure she’s very nice.” Brynden wasn’t even sure he’d met her. “But I can’t marry her. I won’t.”

“You will! You’ll marry who I say and when I say. You’re the son of a lord and the brother of a lord and this is what lords and ladies do! Marriages like this are what holds the realm together.”

“No.” Brynden had thought he’d be shouting back, but somehow his voice was quiet. He just squared his shoulders and faced his brother and said once more, “No. It’s an oath before the gods. I won’t swear it falsely.”

The more resolute Brynden became, the more Hoster’s anger grew. “Are you mocking me? Are you playing one of your games? Seeing how far you can push me?” He was on his feet now, face red and twisted with fury. “If you want a game, little brother, try this one: if you won’t marry Bethany Redwyne, you won’t marry at all! Stare back at me and see who blinks first.”

He wouldn’t have to marry at all?

A sudden giddy rush rose up in Brynden. Not marry at all! Never have to have this fight with Hoster again. Never have to dance about the question of why. Never have to talk to Jon about loving him but marrying someone else. He was free, always. 

It was such a relief that Brynden burst out laughing. Which was, of course, the worst thing he could possibly do.

The cup flew from Hoster’s hand and smashed into the wall, spraying wine over the stones like a sudden rainstorm. “Get out!” Hoster roared. “Get your laughing face away from me! Go laugh your way through the seven hells for all I care. I won’t forget this!”

And he didn’t.

Ever after, every argument that Brynden had with his brother turned into this one. If Brynden objected to an alliance that Hoster was making, Hoster said, “What right do you have to talk about that, when you won’t make a marriage alliance?” If Brynden thought that Hoster was overspending, Hoster said, “Maybe we’d have more money, if you’d married into the Redwyne family.” 

Once, when Brynden was going to a tournament where he knew he’d be seeing Jon, Hoster brought it up again. “You wouldn’t have so much time for tournaments if you’d gotten married properly.” 

Brynden froze. Did Hoster know about Jon? “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice sharpened by fear.

Hoster didn’t see the fear, only the anger. And, to Brynden’s relief, he didn’t seem to have seen anything else in Brynden’s tendency to go to tourneys in the Vale. “It means you’re irresponsible,” he snapped. “Still playing games, the way you always have.”

Only when Hoster’s wife Minisa died did they have a conversation that didn’t get soured by Brynden’s refusal to marry – but then again, they barely spoke at all that night. Brynden just sat silently with his brother while Hoster sobbed on his shoulder, because what could Brynden say, for the loss of both gentle Minisa and the baby she’d been bearing? 

But the next day, it was as if the tears had never happened. Hoster was grim and silent, drawn into himself, leaving Brynden to comfort the bewildered grieving children.

And less than a fortnight later, Hoster said it again. “You probably think you’re lucky that you don’t have a wife of your own to mourn,” he spat bitterly. “Or maybe you’re still too puffed up from being a hero to care.”

Brynden tried to tell himself that his brother was just grieving, and that grief was finding its way out in anger, but the words still hurt. He went away, and comforted the children, and wrote to Jon.

_III: Blackfish_

They weren’t calling Brynden a hero after this war.

Mostly they just called him Blackfish, the same as they had for more than a dozen years now. Everyone saw him as contrary, even when he was risking life and limb to stand by his lord brother. 

But they weren’t calling anyone heroes, not this time.

Young Robert Baratheon had won, but if he hadn’t, he’d have been called a traitor, not a hero. Jon Arryn, too. Young Ned Stark wouldn’t want to be called a hero, for all that he probably was. Jaime Lannister would want to be called one, but who would say that a kingslayer was a hero? Prince Rhaegar probably was one too, but nobody would dare call him that – no Targaryens would be called heroes for a very long time. 

And the Tullys? Brynden and Hoster had fought bravely and fought hard, but they’d slain their own bannermen along the way when the Goodbrooks wouldn’t turn against the Targaryens. 

No heroes, and no right choices. Just people trying to find their way, and hoping that the realm would heal from its wounds. 

Maybe these new marriages would help – Lysa to Jon Arryn, Cat to Ned Stark. The Tullys had always made peace by making their family grow. Kin shouldn’t hurt each other.

Brynden hoped that the realm would heal, and that his brother would heal, too. Hoster had been the brave one this time, facing down the Hand of the King himself in the Battle of the Bells and getting sorely wounded as he did.

Brynden could see the lines of pain slicing across his brother’s face, and wondered what he could say.

He remembered the summer that little Cat broke her arm, and he told her stories all night to distract her from the pain. Over the years, he’d done the same for Lysa and Edmure and even little Petyr. All the children came to him, knowing that Uncle Brynden would know just what to say to make them smile again.

Lysa had come to him last night, sobbing about being made to marry old Jon Arryn instead of the boy Petyr that she loved. He’d had her smiling by the end, just as he always did.

He wanted to do that for his brother, to make that pain go away. But after so long, he hardly knew where to begin. And anyway, Hoster would probably just scoff at him, saying that he was joking at the wrong time. Didn’t Brynden know how to take anything seriously?

So he turned away.

“I’m going with Lysa,” Brynden said. “When she goes to the Eyrie.”

He knew what it was like to love someone you couldn’t marry, and to be told to marry someone you didn’t love. He’d had the luxury of being able to say no, but Lysa didn’t. He’d stay with her. 

And he knew that Jon Redfort would be there. They’d still written letters, and they’d still fought by each other’s side at tourneys, and they’d stayed constant, even after all these years. Brynden could keep his promises.

Hoster’s face darkened at the news, but with pain or anger? Brynden couldn’t even tell anymore. “Go, then,” Hoster said. “If the Eyrie will have you, they’re welcome to you. You were never serious a day in your life. Why would you take anything seriously now? Run away from me now, just like you ran away from Bethany Redwyne.”

Brynden tried to tell himself that his brother was just in pain, but that didn’t work when Hoster was saying the same thing he’d said for the last twenty years.

“Goodbye, Hoster,” was all that he said, before he turned away from Riverrun and went towards the Eyrie.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Once again, I am greatly in debt to the authors of the ASOIAF wiki for their amazing research and diligent compilation of knowledge. All actual information about the Ninepenny War is theirs; all errors are mine.  
> \- Lord Elwyn Tully, Ser Haryn Hightower, and Prince Aemyn Targaryen aren’t named in canon; I made up those names for them. Jon Redfort is mentioned on the ASOIAF wiki, but there’s not much more about him other than the fact that he exists. Ditto for most of the other minor characters, and for the children's games that Brynden and Hoster talk about.  
> \- I think I may have switched the timeline around with regard to when Barristan joined the Kingsguard? But it made for a better story if he was already in the Kingsguard during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.


End file.
